W is For Words, or Lack Thereof
by squad51rescue
Summary: The bored and impatient Chet Kelly can't quite figure out whether the strange conversation between the paramedics is planned to torment him, or is simply their efficient way of communicating.


_****Emergency and its characters belong to Universal Studios and Mark VII. No copyright infringement intended.****_

W is For Words, or Lack Thereof

For hours afterwards, Chet Kelly pondered if those two paramedics had been pulling a fast one on him. But then again, they HAD been working together as a close team for quite a while, and were pretty close friends to boot, so maybe that was just a round of normal conversation to them. He had to admit, though, that the whole episode had him kinda spooked; he was pretty sure that Roy didn't have that kind of dialogue with his wife, and they sure had been married a lot longer than Roy and Johnny had been partners. What was the deal?

It had been a lazy, slow afternoon, and Chet had shot out into the bay after deciding that bugging Marco about his culinary choice for dinner was probably not a good idea. The flying potholder that skimmed by his ear as he exited the room definitely reinforced that thought, as well as the tirade of hissed words that preceded the soft missile. Well, so maybe bugging was too weak of a word to use for the suggestions he was helpfully throwing at his friend. Probably more like annoying, or pestering, or perhaps even teasing. Marco was speaking too fast for Chet to mentally translate most of the words, actually make that ninety nine percent of the words, but he was pretty sure he did catch the meaning of one of them; it was most assuredly not a word he would have used around children.

The front roll up door, he observed once he had gained the safety of the garage, was wide open, and one of the paramedics had pulled the little red squad forward so that its nose was well past the Cap's office door. Chet figured that it had been Roy who had maneuvered it forward; it seemed that he had the upper hand when it came to driving to their responses. Come to think of it, he was sure he could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Gage actually jump into the driver's seat and spur it down the driveway. He had never heard any discussions or arguments about it, so he had no clue as to why DeSoto had taken full control of the driving since day one. Another mystery to solve, but not today.

After failing miserably in his attempts to assist Lopez, he had retreated out into the sanctuary of the garage in the hopes of maybe tempting one of the guys into a game of hoops, or ping pong, or anything at all to shake the lethargy that had settled around the station. Even Boot the dog was completely indifferent to Chet's attempts to rouse him; Chet decided that he had a better chance of taunting Gage into a game of horse than getting the station mascot to uncurl himself and fetch a ball.

His target was perched up on the squad, balancing precariously on the shiny waxed edge of the right fender, peering down into the depths of the engine. Roy leaned, feet firmly planted on the floor, over the opposite fender. He too was gazing into the engineering wonders; his arms were buried to the elbows within the metal abyss.

Chet had sauntered over to the two aspiring mechanics and leaned over the grill. He looked from one man to the other but they both ignored him and continued their contemplative staring.

"What are you guys doing?" He finally asked, tapping a hand impatiently. There was a pause before Johnny answered, head still bent and staring down the engine, as if the mysteries of life would be revealed if he looked long enough.

"Maintenance."

"I know you're doing that, but what kind?" Kelly had tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice; there was no sense in antagonizing the guys this early in the game.

"Routine." It was Desoto who answered this time, raising an arm and hand out of the depths and handing over a wrench to his squatting partner.

"Geesh! Okay, okay, routine maintenance, but exactly what part of the engine are you doing the stuff on?"

Gage finally turned his head and squinted at him, pursing his lips and blowing at an errant strand of hair that seemed to have escaped his last haircut, whenever that had been. Kelly couldn't help but lift his own hand and finger the curly locks at his neck that were just, barely, touching his shirt collar. Have to watch that, he didn't really want to be always looking over his shoulder for the Chief to show up on an unexpected visit. He hadn't missed the way John always seemed to blend into the brickwork or attempted to stay one step ahead of their keenly observant Chief, hoping to dodge the command of "Gage, get a haircut."

"Everything," Johnny's glib answer set Chet's teeth on edge. He smacked both of his hands down on the frame but still had the presence of mind to do it gently; the resulting sound was merely a slap of annoyance. He stepped back a step and folded his arms.

"Screwdriver," Roy snapped.

"Yep." The tool was slapped into the outstretched palm with a surgeon's precision. Roy looked at it and shook his head.

"No."

"Flat?" Johnny reached his left hand to the side where a row of tools was laid out in a neat row on a rag, and snagged the screwdriver by the blade without waiting for an answer.

"Definitely." The instruments of maintenance were switched out and the medics resumed their tinkering. Chet stroked his mustache thoughtfully and decided that maybe this one word bantering was amusement enough for now. He noticed Mike leaving the dorm and quickly trotted around the front of the engine and placed a hand on Stoker's arm to halt his progress.

"Listen to those two for a minute….." he whispered, jabbing a finger towards the squad. Mike shot him a perplexed look, but remained where he was.

"Dodgers?"

"Yeah."

"Seven?"

"Nope."

"Less?"

"Five."

Chet shook his head in amazement; he had just followed that whole dialogue. The Dodgers had won their game last night, by five runs. He knew that because Johnny and Marco had both been at his apartment to watch the game. He touched Mike on the shoulder to gain his attention; the ever diligent engineer was rubbing at a spot on the chrome with his pant leg.

"Do you see what I mean? The way they are talking?"

Stoker gave the invisible spot a last pat and frowned at the shorter man.

"So?" He rubbed his hands together briskly and strolled off, leaving a bewildered lineman behind. Chet stared after him, mouth twitching in indignation, strongly tempted to hurl a fierce retort. A second of analyzation stayed his words as he realized that the paramedics' conversation probably seemed completely normal, maybe even long winded, to the taciturn Mike Stoker. Of course he had to admit that since he had completely understood that last bit of dialogue, maybe he was overreacting a bit to DeSoto and Gage's form of communication. Or even scarier, he was as nuts as they were.

He strolled purposefully back to the front of the squad and planted himself once more between the two men. Again, neither one acknowledged his presence; they continued to mess about with the innards of their rescue vehicle. There was silence for a moment before DeSoto lifted his head and glanced at his partner.

"Dinner?"

"Sure."

"Good."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Meatloaf?" Gage's voice was expressionless, but from where Chet was standing, he could see the downward tilt of his mouth as he said the word and the fleeting expression of dislike flashing across his face. Apparently the dish wasn't one of the paramedic's favorites, but he was obviously smart enough to keep that fact to himself when it came to a free meal.

"Nope." Roy replied, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice. Chet snickered and mentally filed away that little tidbit of knowledge for future use; if Roy got out of hand at some point he could always threaten him with a little phone call to his wife about his obvious aversion to meatloaf. They ALL knew about that food comment Roy had made to JoAnne several weeks earlier concerning her cooking; Kelly was sure the peace loving DeSoto wouldn't want a repeat of that episode.

"Spaghetti?" There was a hopeful lift to Gage's voice as he asked that question, leaving Chet to briefly consider the paranoid thought that maybe Johnny was reading his mind.

"Maybe."

Chet couldn't help but wonder if the possible spaghetti dinner was Mike Stoker's recipe; he could feel his saliva glands shifting into overdrive as he thought about how good that pasta dish really was. He stared fixedly at Roy, hoping that he would include him in the dinner invite. The other man, who obviously couldn't feel the suggestive vibes beaming at him, straightened up. Johnny looked over at him and hesitated, then plunged into his next question.

"Chick?"

It was Roy's turn to pause; he looked over at John then peered at Chet as if he hadn't realized that he was standing there absorbing the abbreviated but entertaining conversation.

"Maybe."

"Huh." For some odd reason the tone of Johnny's voice roused sympathy within Chet; he definitely felt the uneasiness at the possibility of a blind date. He squirmed inwardly but kept his thought and his mouth firmly sealed. He didn't even to attempt to analyze the fact that now he was following this odd conversation with ease.

"JoAnne?"

"Again."

"Sheesh…" Johnny exhaled heavily and shook his head. His hands stilled as he looked down at the engine. He lifted his head up and frowned at Chet, then agilely leapt to the ground. He began gathering up the tools and turned to dump them into the grey tool box parked by the mirror. Chet bounced on his toes, impatience overriding his resolve to listen only.

"Come on, Gage, are you going to go or what?" He demanded. "Remember that last girl JoAnne set you up with? She was a knockout, even you said that."

"And?" John dropped the lid down on the box with more force then necessary, and wheeled the cart towards the wall. DeSoto stopped its clattering forward motion with a hand, opened the top drawer, and dropped in the screwdriver and a wrench.

Chet waved a hand, resisting the juvenile urge to stomp his feet. "And nothing! For Pete's sake, don't leave me in the dark here! You two are driving me crazy here with your impossible one worded conversation!"

Both men stared at the clearly frustrated lineman, their own confusion evident in their expressions. John finally shrugged and looked at Roy, lifting both hands in resignation.

"Ok."

"Seven."

"Right."

Chet heaved a sigh and decided he had had enough of the word play, especially now that he understood it. He spun around and headed towards the day room, his food spat with Marco completely forgotten. He was in desperate need of some verbal sparring with his friend.

Johnny jumped into the squad and fired it up, backing the newly serviced vehicle back into its accustomed slot. Once out on solid ground, he leaned lazily against the side of the truck, folded his arms across his chest, and crossed his legs at the ankles. After putting the tool cart away, Roy joined him. They observed silently as Chet Kelly carried on a noisy monologue in the kitchen, complete with wildly gesticulating hands, all directed at the cook of the day. Marco studiously ignored him, intent on his task of chopping vegetables.

Roy nudged his partner with a shoulder and tipped his head towards the babble emanating from the curly headed lineman.

"Crazy?"

"Definitely."

"Hungry?"

"Always."

"Dogs?"

Johnny shot a skeptical look at the pile of odd looking green veggies that Lopez was expertly dissecting and nodded in agreement. "Yeah…"

"Chili?"

"Sure."

"Jalapenos?"

"Pickles."

"Onions?"

"Nope."

"Date?"

"Yep."

"Morning?"

"Yep."

"Where?"

"Beach….."Gage's lips curled into a smile as he thought about his date lined up for the next morning after they got off shift.

"Ahhh…." Roy replied, his own smile breaking out as understanding dawned.

Johnny abandoned his relaxed pose and opened the squad door, intent on tracking down hot dogs for their lunch. He paused and turned back towards the break room as the sound of one sharp bark echoed into the apparatus bay and Chet's irritated voice floated out a second later.

"For cripes sake, Boot! You too? Can't a guy get a normal conversation around here?"


End file.
